


Do Those Things Grow in The Fire?

by walkerofthestars



Series: With Morality Like a Polynomial [3]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Assassin!Dick Grayson, BTHB, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Delirium, Depictions of Rape/Non-con, Dick Grayson is Deathstroke, Dick Grayson was Renegade, Dick Grayson was Robin, Flashbacks, Forced to kill, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Its all downhill from here folks, M/M, PTSD, Psychosis, Whump, also kind of?, and here's the kicker folks but guess what, dark!AU, mentions of Billy Wintergreen, mentions of Rose Wilson, mentions of conner kent, mercenary!Dick Grayson, oh boy the first two were okay but this is where it gets bad, this is probably the darkest thing I've written so far yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29533296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkerofthestars/pseuds/walkerofthestars
Summary: “I tried to fight off Deathstroke, he won out.”“Was it Wilson?”Roy shook his head, “Wilson is dead. It was someone else.”“you could tell?” Dinah asked.“he had one eye too many.” Roy snorted, “and a bit more sass, too. Fought differently as well, he was clearly trained by Wilson, but he’s got a different body type and build, and he uses acrobatic moves,” Roy explained, then took a deep breath, “but he said something weird.”...“he said… he said that he was disappointed the league hadn’t managed to get Conner out yet.”Dick doesn't know what Conner means when he says he's'sending someone his way', but it's not like the mission he just finished up was particularly difficult so he's okay with waiting around a few hours to find out what Conner cares enough about to risk Lex Luthor's wrath.He was not expecting to find Wally West. Especially seeing as the speedster in question has been dead for years.Although, in that regard, Dick really can't judge.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson & Wally West, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: With Morality Like a Polynomial [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2150019
Comments: 11
Kudos: 107





	Do Those Things Grow in The Fire?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How Arbitrary Fate Is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213755) by [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking). 
  * Inspired by [i’m no hero / starting back at zero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732421) by [Forestfire34720](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestfire34720/pseuds/Forestfire34720). 
  * Inspired by [Body, Mind and Soul (plus all the other broken pieces)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114165) by [ForeverWhelmed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverWhelmed/pseuds/ForeverWhelmed). 



> Okay.  
> Okay.  
> when I say this is where it gets bad I mean it y'all, heed the tags, if this sounds like it's not for you then trust me when I say it's time to leave.  
> This is the fic that gave me inspiration and a start to this whole story, so it's the one that took the longest so far lmao.  
> it's also the one that was inspired by other people's stuff!  
> This fic was inspired by:  
> How Arbitrary Fate Is by withthekeyisking  
> i'm no hero / starting back at zero by Forestfire34720  
> and, it's unofficial sequel!  
> Body, Mind and Soul (plus all the other broken pieces) by ForeverWhelmed

Bruce considered his grudge against Slade Wilson to be extremely justified. And he was correct in that consideration.

If a case involved the mercenary Bruce wanted to know about it. he did more than _keep tabs_ , he wanted to know if Wilson ever so much as _looked_ at his city or his family.

So as soon as Roy was patched up and recounting what had happened he was on his way to the watchtower.

He swept into the infirmary, Roy was talking with Dinah. He was relaxed and sitting on the infirmary bed, legs dangling off the side. He fixed the archer with a glare and demanded, “talk.”

“Bruce,” Dinah sighed as she stood, “give it a at least-“

“no,” Roy said, “it’s fine. I expected it.”

Bruce waited.

“I was hired by a competitor of Lex Luthor’s, for protection. I didn’t know it was Deathstroke who’d be turning up, but I’d told this man I’d protect him, so I wasn’t about to turn tail,” Roy began, “I tried to fight off Deathstroke, he won out.”

“Was it Wilson?”

Roy shook his head, “our theories were correct, Wilson is dead. It was someone else.”

“you could tell?” Dinah asked.

“he had one eye too many.” Roy snorted, “and a bit more sass, too. Fought differently as well, he was clearly trained by Wilson, but he’s got a different body type and build, and he uses acrobatic moves,” Roy explained, then took a deep breath, “but he said something weird.”

“how do you mean?” Dinah asked, with clear worry evident in her voice.

Roy clenched his jaw and frowned at the wall, “he made it clear he wasn’t interested in fighting me, and he was obviously holding back. A lot. A…” he grimaced, “an embarrassing amount.”

Dinah patted Roy’s shoulder in a pitying way while holding back giggles.

“what did he say?” Batman grit out.

Roy was still frowning, eyebrows knit in confusion, “he said… he said that he was disappointed the league hadn’t managed to get Conner out yet.”

Batman went rigid. So did Canary.

“he said…” Roy shook his head, but forged on, “that if we managed to get a telepath to him we could wipe _red son_ from his mind once and for all, it wouldn’t even be hard, and that the bombs and proximity alerts and trackers that are implanted in him could be removed in an hour tops, would succumb immediately if exposed to an EMP.”

Canary blinked, staring at Roy in confusion, “what?”

Batman said slowly, “he told you that?”

“yeah, then he said, ‘just something to think about’,” Roy huffed, “and kicked me off the roof and into a dumpster.”

“lovely,” Dinah mused.

Batman looked at her and then Roy, and ran the words through his mind, “why would Deathstroke bother to say that to you?”

“that’s what I’m confused by.”

“do you know who it is? Does he know you?”

“I don’t think so?” Roy ran a hand through his hair.

“he went out of his way to say that to you and then _not_ kill you,” Batman said.

“which would suggest that whoever this new Deathstroke is,” Dinah said, crossing her arms, “he wants us to save Conner.”

“yeah, welcome to the party,” Roy grunted, “it’s not like we haven’t been trying. It’s not like we didn’t _know_ all that.”

“we didn’t,” Batman said, “we assumed that Luthor must have rigged Conner somehow, and we knew that _Red Son_ was still in his head, we didn’t know if it had any chance of being removed.”

Dinah stood from her chair, “I’ll call Clark back.”

Dick heard the bow be drawn, heard the creak of the weapon and the intake of breath from the person behind him.

“hands in the air,” Red Arrow ordered.

Dick rolled his eyes, “oh no,” he said, standing slowly from his crouch and stepping back out of the shadows and turning to look at Roy, “I’m completely at your mercy.”

Roy’s breath could’ve been as loud as a cymbal in Dick’s ears as he heard Roy’s sharp intake of air.

“Deathstroke.”

Would Dick ever get used to that? Not likely, no, he barely managed to get used to _Renegade_.

Roy said, keeping his voice smooth, “seeing better lately?”

Dick let out a biting laugh, short and almost a perfect replication of Slade’s, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I’m not letting you kill DeTrant.”

“that’s where you’ve got this whole situation wrong, Harper,” Dick said, “you’re not going to _let_ me do anything.”

He moved so fast Roy was barely able to let the arrow fly before he had a sword out. He cut the shaft in half in the air as he dodged and then sprung closer to Roy, beginning a barrage of moves that had Roy giving ground. The bow snapped and cracked and broke in two under his sword and then Dick landed a kick square in Roy’s chest that sent him reeling back.

“DeTrant dies whether you stay and fight or not, harper,” Dick drawled, “try out some self-preservation and go.”

Roy yelled, rage that was once simmering now burning to the front of his mind as he launched at Dick, on the offensive.

To be completely honest, Dick just found him annoying.

They were on the roof of the building, Dick was just about to disable the security system so he could get in without a trace. Things had been running smoothly, he hadn’t expected Roy to appear. He’d known DeTrant had hired someone to protect him, he hadn’t expected the guy would go for a vigilante. His track record and personal stances suggested he’d never deign to give them money. He was an elitist in that sense. He also seemed to be a hypocrite, which didn’t exactly contest his position as an elitist.

Regardless of the fact that he was going up against a vigilante and not some white-collar security firm, Dick found no trouble beating his competition. He shoved Roy back once more, the two of them growing closer to the edge of the roof.

Dick wasn’t landing any hits he didn’t have to. He had no intentions or inclinations to kill Roy. He just needed him to get out of his way.

Roy kept coming back for more, though. Every time Dick sent him stumbling back he threw himself forward once more. Dick increased the strength behind his hits, let himself draw some blood, but Roy just wasn’t getting the picture.

What a tenacious asshole.

You know, if the league had had this kind of determination a decade ago, maybe Dick and his friends wouldn’t be in the situations they were in.

He let himself hit Roy across the face a little too hard to be necessary at that thought.

It wasn’t particularly fair to think that. All things considered they were all pretty past saving. Except maybe Artemis, her situation was a bit different, but she somewhat saved herself. Dick was a little disappointed in himself for never managing to do the same. Regardless of what Dick thought, what he knew, he couldn’t really say that the league should’ve saved any of them by now, even if it wouldn’t be hard to get Conner and Kaldur out, maybe even M’Gann.

And really, there was no one he wanted to save more than M’Gann. But he wasn’t in a position to do so, not yet.

He would be eventually. Every time he felt that twinge of survivor’s guilt he held to that word. Eventually.

So he couldn’t be mad, it wasn’t fair. But whoever said there was any such thing as _fair_ in this world? No, he’d be mad at the league for the rest of eternity, he didn’t give a shit.

And Roy kept coming back. Maybe he just wanted to feel some pain, maybe he was looking for a punishment. Dick could relate. He’d always tried to pick a fight with Slade whenever he’d been in need for some self-flagellation. It wasn’t healthy, he knew that, he also didn’t care.

Eventually he gave up on the gentle approach. He slammed hits into Roy until he landed a kick square in his chest once more that sent him stumbling and faltering backwards until he tripped and fell, lying on his stomach and wincing as he tried to push himself back up. He rolled over on to his back, was about to sit up.

Dick placed his boot on his chest, pushed down just a little.

“stay down.”

Roy fixed him with a glare but didn’t bother embarrassing himself by scratching and clawing at Dick’s booted foot.

Dick watched him, and Roy watched him watch him, with a small piece of curious fascination.

He’d never known how anyone took his death, aside from the obvious. he found out there was a funeral held, and he’d gone to see the grave site. It was tasteful, he liked the spot, he approved. Not a lot of people could say they approved of their gravestone.

The stone had claimed him as ‘a loyal son and friend. An inspiration, a light in darkness. Remembered and loved. Always.’ Dick wondered if it had been Alfred who’d picked that or someone else.

He’d considered taking a bullet to the stone the first time he’d seen it, but quickly sobered. After that he’d had the thought to take hammer and tool and pick away the engraved inscription, considering how false it had become. Eventually he’d decided to leave it as it was.

The person who’d been buried in that grave had been all those things. But that person was dead and all that was left was his dark counterpart, who stood for and represented everything his old self used to work against. The grave was true and real, and Dick couldn’t be bothered to remove the last vestige of what he once was.

Sometimes he lay awake at night wondering why that was. Sometimes he knew exactly why, and he was scared of the answer.

As he stared at Roy he found himself wanting to ask if he had grieved. If he had cried. If that eternally cool and indifferent façade had crumbled, or maybe even shook under the news that one of his childhood friends had died. Dick and Wally and Roy had been so close once upon a time, before Roy’s ingrained mission had been activated. It wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t mean Roy had to turn away from his friends, from the people he’d once seen as brothers.

Dick wanted to know if Roy had mourned. If he’d tried to save any of them. If he’d felt guilty.

He pushed down a little harder and leaned forward, “still going by Red Arrow, then?”

Roy’s glare fired up once more, “what do you care?”

“well, you seem closer to _Green_ Arrow, one would expect you to run back from your teenaged rebellion eventually,” Dick said, in a drawling tone, “you’re almost thirty, surely you’re running out of angst.”

“I’m not Green Arrow’s protégé anymore,” Roy hissed, “ _Speedy_ doesn’t exist.”

And wasn’t that the kicker? Speedy doesn’t exist. One could write an essay on the metaphor of that sentence. Dick couldn’t be fucked to break it down, all he could think of was the fact that his _friend_ , his _brother_ , had been Speedy. Red Arrow had only ever been an asshole who turned away from his friends as soon as he couldn’t get what he wanted from them.

Dick tilted his head, feeling a cold danger settle in. he copied Slade’s voice, his tone, that drawling emotionless sound he’d held in his words when asking questions he didn’t care about the answer to but did care about the reaction they’d get, “did you feel guilty? Did you even care?”

“about what?” Roy hissed.

“when The Light killed and captured the league’s covert team.”

Roy stilled, a perfect statue, and his glare turned hotter than hellfire, “how _dare you_.”

As Roy tried to lunge up Dick pushed back, feeling bones begin to give under his foot. A touch more and he’d fracture something. Roy began to claw at Dick’s boot in an attempt to get himself free.

“it’s a little disappointing really,” Dick continued in that cold voice, “it wouldn’t even be _hard_ to save Conner.”

Roy drew his arm back and _hit_ it against Dick’s shin, as hard as he could. Dick scowled. He and pain were old friends and he barely felt the dull thud through the armour, even if he did he doubted it would do much more than bruise.

“god you’re like a fucking cockroach aren’t you?” Dick asked, watching Roy continue to squirm in rage, “I could take you out in a second and go kill DeTrant, but this is just _funny_.”

“Fuck you!”

“well that’s not even creative, come on,” Dick snickered, then pushed Roy down once again, going just far enough that he’d get some minor hairline fracturing and bruising, “you know, you could wipe _Red Son_ in one sitting provided you had an experienced and proficient telepath. And all the bombs and proximity alerts and trackers would go down with an EMP and could be removed in about an _hour_ if you rushed.” Roy seethed below him, expression feral, “it’s almost _pitiful_ that you haven’t gotten him out of Lex’s hands.”

“says the one currently _working_ for Lex.”

Dick gritted his teeth at that and pressed a bit harder, feeling a bone crack.

He leaned down and hissed, “just something to think about.”

And then he kicked him off the roof, into a dumpster.

Frankly, that was where Roy deserved to land.

Dick went back to his safe house in Happy Harbour, cleaned his gear, checked the perimeter, followed his usual post-mission routine and before-sleep routine, then went to bed. He woke at five, got his shit together and-

And he got a phone call.

He checked his work phone, it was quiet, the screen was black.

There was… another phone in the room?

Dick went still, let his enhanced hearing pick up on where the sound was coming from. He followed it to his bags of gear, in the room that was a temporary study-of-sorts while he was in Happy Harbour. He’d almost packed everything up, he would be finished by lunch so he could leave.

He had three bags of gear used purely for missions. He stared at one of them, where the sound was coming from.

It was _his_ bag.

Well, they were all _his_ bags. All his gear, all his guns, all his armour. They had been for just over three months now and he still wasn’t used to it.

But one of them, slightly smaller than the others, was _his_. Always had been his. It was the bag he’d used when he was Renegade. It held his old weapons from that time, the ones he’d taken from that uniform and added to his new uniform.

He walked over and opened it, the phone rang out.

There was an inner pocket, he found a phone inside.

Oh.

Wow.

He’d forgotten this phone.

He stared at it, sitting in the palm of his hand so unassumingly.

Slade had given it to him after about five or six years. The things Dick had done, the ‘good behaviour’ he’d exhibited, the…

He felt a little sick.

It had been an olive branch, returning some freedom to him, but it had also been positive reinforcement from Slade. More stupid _manipulation_. More ways to make Dick feel like Slade cared about him, to make him dependant and trusting.

God, Dick wished he could say it hadn’t worked.

He swallowed and turned the phone on. The number wasn’t recognised, and they’d left a message. Dick had absolutely no idea who it could be. Who had he given the number to?

He racked his brain, staring at the notification.

He stood and paced along the hallway, the phone in hand. He supposed there was nothing wrong in listening to it. maybe it was a wrong number accident, maybe it was someone trying to threaten him, maybe it was-

Maybe it was Slade. Maybe Slade wasn’t actually dead, had healed up over time, had broken out of the coffin in the ground Dick and Wintergreen had put him in, was calling Dick now to put him back in line-

Dick took a deep breath, in and out, in and out. He needed to calm _down_. Slade was dead. Slade was _dead_. Dick had watched it happen. Had analysed the wounds. Had made Wintergreen analyse the wounds. They both confirmed, both _knew_ , Slade was dead.

And even if he wasn’t, Dick had done exactly what was expected of him.

He’d been Slade’s apprentice, his _Renegade_. The whole point of an apprentice is to take the master’s place one day. Slade Wilson was dead, long live Deathstroke. Dick was Deathstroke, just as was planned. He’d spent the past few months going through all the resources and contacts, shoring up the lines and making sure nothing fell apart as soon as Slade wasn’t around. Deathstroke was the world’s best mercenary. Slade had built up quite the empire over the years and Dick ~~wasn’t allowed to~~ _wouldn’t_ let it crumble as soon as Slade was in the ground.

Dick had nothing to worry about. To fear.

And if Slade _were_ here he’d be eternally amused at how daunting Dick was finding it to listen to a goddamn voice message.

He opened the phone, raised it to his ear to play back the recording and-

_“hey Dick, it’s Conner. Look. I’m sending someone your way, you’re in Happy Harbour, yeah? Just stay there for at least 24 hours, please.”_

Dick blinked, staring down the hallway in numb confused shock.

Conner? Oh. Oh right, yes, _Conner_ , he’d given the number to Conner when he’d been waiting for Slade to be done with a meeting with Lex. Slade had known, because he _always_ knew, and-

_He shuddered as something trailed down his spine-_

No.

He took a deep breath and marched to the kitchen of the safe house, flicking the phone away onto the couch in the lounge as he passed it.

He’d gone through his punishment for daring to reach out to Conner, faced the consequences of those actions. He didn’t need to relive them. If he let himself be stuck in flashbacks for the rest of eternity he was letting Slade win.

Dick leaned against the kitchen counter, hands pressed into the marble top, and breathed.

He was a big boy now, he could handle this.

Conner was… sending someone his way?

What?

As in for a job? Lex gave him lots of contracts, had been one of Slade’s most frequent customers, but not even _he_ needed two people killed within a week of each other. And why would he ask Conner to make the call? Through _this_ number specifically no less?

No. this was something else, this was-

Had Conner gotten out?

Dick’s heart rate picked up for a moment till he got his head under control. It was impossible. There would be no way. And if he had, Lex would’ve probably called him by now to hire him to track Conner down.

Sending someone his way? The hell did he mean?

Dick was a mercenary, trained by the best to be the best, he was not a fucking _babysitter_ , or a taxi driver, why the hell was Conner ‘sending someone his way’, the fuck did Conner expect him to do?

Dick rubbed at his face.

Whether he fully believed it or not, he knew he could trust Conner. _he_ wasn’t like Dick and Artemis, he hadn’t given up entirely on being a decent person. Conner was still, at his core, made to be a hero. Dick supposed it was impossible for anyone with blood from Clark Kent to go completely bad. Maybe he had given up escaping, fighting, rebelling, which was understandable considering it had been ten years. Eventually you have to throw in the towel. But Conner didn’t have the blood on his hands, the completely destroyed sense of morality, the ability to turn off the part of his brain that says _no-_

 _Hot breath against his ear and, “you’re awfully quiet tonight?” hands on his skin, sheets under him, the burn of alcohol at the back of his throat and the smell of gun smoke and sweat and_ Slade _, “I was beginning to enjoy listening to you beg.”_

And _no_ , Dick was not letting himself go down that road tonight. Not tonight. Not any night ever again.

Slade was dead. Slade was dead, dead, so very, very, _fucking dead_ , and yet Dick was still losing to him, was still affected by him, was still biting his lip, and doing as he was told because he didn’t know _what else to do-_

What had Conner said? Just stay in Happy harbour for 24 hours? He could do that. A small act of rebellion, of taking back his life because Slade was _dead_ , no one was making them bug out at exactly ten thirty, no one was timing his time in the shower, no one was _pressing him against the shower wall when he’d gone a second over the allotted time_.

He could stay 24 hours, and then he could decide what to do with the person Conner was apparently _sending his way_.

He’d given up on being anything other than what Slade wanted of him a long time ago, but at least now he got to make the decisions. He was Deathstroke, not Renegade. He picked the contracts, he made the plans, he did the research and he _got to choose_.

But only in the ways that didn’t matter.

Dick wouldn’t have normally investigated.

He was walking home, on his way back to the safe house, from the diner. He’d needed to take a breather and the familiar cracked pleather seats were a comfort he’d forgotten about till he’d been walking past it and seen the sign. he would have ordered what he used to when he was a kid but Slade’s voice in the back of his mind floated to the forefront, his disapproval of sugary shit foods and things that lacked nutrition. He’d settled for coffee (something he felt no effect from anymore and purely drank for the taste and out of habit) as well as a chicken toastee.

24 hours was what Conner asked him for, it had now been fifteen. Dick was well aware he still had a few hours to go, but he felt as if by now whoever Conner had ‘sent his way’ should have arrived.

Although, Conner couldn’t exactly give them a specific location other than _in Happy Harbour_ , so he supposed it was understandable.

But that meant he had no plans for what he was doing. He could continue with some of the work he could do from his computer and phone, but aside from taking a new contract and beginning to scope it there wasn’t much. He’d basically finished running through the contacts and the properties. He’d spent the past few months being treasurer, secretary, and quartermaster. Frankly, he was glad for this, it gave him an excuse to do fuck all for a few hours.

If he wanted to reason it, he supposed that was why he’d investigated the strange sounds.

He’d just walked out the door and started walking back to the safe house when he heard it. faint. Someone crying, holding in sobs, but alongside it this strange _vibration_ , like a phone buzzing. He glanced in the direction and then at the few other people on the street. No one else was investigating.

He found himself turning to walk into the alley before he could reason as to why not to.

His hearing was enhanced and so was his sight, but it was his sense of smell that was picking up on what others couldn’t. burnt rubber and dust and… smoke? The vague impression of what Dick smelled whenever he was around concrete that had just been blown up and sent debris and dust everywhere.

He walked slowly, peering through the shadows. Someone was crouched behind the diner, pulled into themselves like they were trying to shrink down, down, down until they ceased to exist. Their hands had a vice grip in their hair, and they were… Shaking?

No. vibrating. They were flickering. Their body seemed to glitch like a video game character.

Dick narrowed his eyes.

Speedster. They were a speedster.

He stalked closer, slowly, making nigh on no sound. He walked till he was in front of the curled-up speedster, about three feet away, and crouched.

They were breathing heavily, broken up by the odd hiccupped breath. Dick couldn’t see their face through their arms, but he could see ginger hair between the fingers twisted archaically, like he was trying to pull his skull apart. The soles of his sneakers were smooth, worn to almost nothing, the smell of burnt rubber was stronger. There was dirt on the knees of his pants.

Dick took a breath in louder than necessary, letting the speedster know he was there. He paused for a moment, his shoulders becoming marginally more tense, before he moved slightly, looking at Dick between his fringe and arms. Dick couldn’t make out the colour of his eyes, the pupils were far too dilated.

“hey there,” he said, voice low and quiet, exactly how Slade used to speak when Dick was in the middle of some kind of mental shit storm.

The speedster faltered, staring at him. He loosened his grip on his hair slightly, slowly becoming more capable of controlling his breathing.

“hi.” He said, with a shaky voice that barely dared to be heard.

Dick cocked his head, trying to get a better look at the speedster’s face through his limbs. Did this one work for Barry? Was he a new meta, hence the freak out behind the diner? Was he a hero Dick somehow hadn’t heard of?

“are you injured?” Dick asked.

They shook their head.

Dick nodded, “you’re a long way from Central.”

The speedster winced, “it was an accident.”

Dick raised his eyebrow. Interesting.

“I didn’t mean to… I couldn’t- couldn’t _stop_ , and,” he took a sharp breath in, “please, you gotta believe me Dick-“

Dick went wide eyed and stood, gun drawn and levelled on him, “how do you know that name?”

The speedster unravelled, pressing against the wall in a haste to put space between him and the gun.

And Dick stopped.

His finger was on a trigger, holding a pistol, loaded, safety off, perfect point-blank range of a few feet from a head, a head that held green eyes and ginger hair and freckles and-

Wally. He was holding a live firearm directly at Wally. At Wally West. At a dead man.

And he was frozen.

Wally stared at him.

Dick didn’t know what to do. Was this real? Was this a dream? Was it a hallucination?

Slade had taught him a lot of things but he’d never told Dick how to deal with his dead childhood friend showing up behind the diner they used to go to with their friends, before everything went to shit, and was now clearly having a panic attack while Dick himself pointed a gun at his face.

How did he deal with this?

He tried to reboot his brain, to start again, to rethink this. He forced himself to take a breath, and decided the gun needed to not be in his hand right now.

He clicked the safety on and shoved it back where he kept it. eyeing Wally the entire time.

Wally was still staring.

Dick held his hands out so Wally could see they were empty.

“you’re alive?” Dick asked, as if it weren’t obvious.

Wally nodded slowly, still staring at him. His eyes raked up and down his body, getting stuck on certain things before moving to the next. He was quiet until, “is your eye okay?”

Dick blinked, confused. Frowned. Then remembered.

“oh.” He was about to trace his hand along the scar but stopped himself, “yeah it’s fine.”

he still remembered when he’d earned it.

_you’re more like me than you think-_

still remembered receiving it.

_you’re not the Bat’s yes-boy anymore-_

he still remembered the feel of his blood dripping down his cheek.

_I could make it so everyone knew you were mine at a glance if I wanted-_

He took a deep breath and pushed it from his mind.

“Did Conner send you?” Dick asked.

Wally continued to stare, eyes darting to the right every so often. He frowned, “uh… yeah I think, I…”

Dick cocked his head as he watched Wally, as he tried to follow what he was saying.

“I was… in Central. I-“ his breath hitched, and he shook his head and looked down, hand coming up to his hair again, elbow against his knee, he was still looking to the right every couple seconds, “I… I don’t know why I-I just couldn’t-couldn’t _stop_ , and- I don’t know- don’t… I don’t _remember_ , how I got here? I… I was in Gotham? And… I don’t think it was Conner? He… it was… someone in a suit with a LexCorp logo-“ his other hand rose up to hold his head as well, he was shaking again, getting faster and faster and slowly building back up to the flickering glitch from before, he kept looking to the right, over and over, less time between each glance the more he watched, “Dick… I don’t… I…” he was now stuck staring in that direction, fear in his eyes and pupils dilated too much to see the green, “I… I don’t- Dick, you- can’t you- Dick can’t you fucking _see that_?”

Dick frowned, slowly turning his head to look in the direction Wally was. He saw nothing. Empty space.

He fixed Wally with a worried stare, “see what?”

Wally clenched his teeth, fingers threading through his hair again as he watched the spot, “Don’t fucking play with me it’s _right there_.”

“Wally,” Dick said, crouching down once more to be on eye level, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wally made a pained sound in the back of his throat, “please, just _look again_ , it’s _there_ , I can see it, I…”

Dick took a deep breath but checked again anyway in hopes it would make Wally feel better.

“can you see it?”

“Wally,” Dick said, “how about you come with me, okay? Have you eaten recently? Gotten any sleep?”

Wally shook his head vigorously, eyeing the spot, “can. You. See. It.”

Dick closed his eyes, forced his shoulders to relax. He could handle this.

“Wally,” Dick said, trying to draw his full attention. “hey, come on, look at me.”

Wally shook his head and a tear ran down his cheek, “Dick, please, tell me you can see it.”

Dick held his hands out again to show they were empty, once he knew Wally had seen them he slowly moved them closer till he could touch Wally’s forearms.

“hey,” he said, lightly, “hey, come on, let go, you’ll pull your hair out.”

Wally swallowed, but when Dick began to lightly pull his arms away he let him, and Dick held them in front of Wally lightly.

“hey,” Dick said, and this time Wally finally looked at him, “I’m going to help you up, okay, and then we’re gonna head to my safe house.”

Wally nodded, “okay.”

“okay.”

Dick stood and helped Wally up by grabbing him under the shoulders. he supported him and walked out of the alley, Wally was clinging to him all the while. His car was just half-way down the block and anyone who saw the two of them on the way there chuckled and went about their day, clearly assuming Wally was drunk.

Dick dumped Wally in the passenger seat, buckled him in and then slumped in the driver’s side. He sighed as he turned the engine on and dropped his hands on the steering wheel.

 _I’m not a fucking babysitter_ , he thought to himself, _I help him out and then he can go back to Barry_.

It wasn’t until he was hitting his mattress headfirst that it occurred to him.

Wally was behind the Central City attack.

Dick woke up in a pissy mood.

First of all, he could hear Wally in the other room. Slade had always moved so quietly and Wintergreen did too, and Rose wasn’t usually up this early. He woke up at the usual time of five in the morning, and he could hear Wally snoring. Through the wall. He had enhanced hearing but _still_.

He got up, went to the bathroom, had a shower, and got dressed. He could hear Wally now moving about in the room down the hall and slipped his phone in his pocket and headed out to make sure he didn’t break anything.

Wally had taken the couch seeing as all Dick wanted to do was sleep on a bed. Dick had made sure he had a blanket and pillow cause he wasn’t a complete asshole.

Dick walked down the hall, watching as Wally idly wandered around the room, looking at the minimalist décor. He felt his phone vibrate, pulled it out to check the caller ID.

Rose. He raised it to his ear, about to press the button when-

“don’t touch that,” Dick cut in, putting the phone back in his pocket, as Wally reached for his tablet lying on the coffee table.

Wally’s eyes snapped up to him and stayed there. He looked a little better than he had the night before. His eyes were clearer and he was far less twitchy.

Wally looked guilty as he stepped away from the tablet. He looked Dick up and down once more.

“full disclosure,” he said, with an awkward half-grimace half-smile, “I don’t remember last night all too well.”

“didn’t think you would, you looked a little out of it,” Dick said with an unamused eyebrow raise. He pointed over his shoulder down the hall, “bathroom’s last one on the left.”

Wally nodded and headed down, Dick walked into the kitchen and began pulling things out for breakfast.

He decided on scrambled eggs. If Wally was anything like he used to be then he’d turn up his nose at most vegetables-unless he was extremely hungry. Dick could cut come capsicum, mushrooms and tomatoes which would all be hidden by eggs, ham, and cheese. He let his mind wander a bit as he began cutting the vegetables.

Wally walked back out, fresh from a shower but wearing the same slightly dirt-stained clothes and took a very loud deep inhale of the air then loudly claimed, “smells good.”

Dick rolled his eyes, watching as Wally snuck into the kitchen and tried to steal some ham. He flicked him with the spatula, “sit down, stay out of the way,” he said, gesturing at the bar stools under the bench of the breakfast bar.

Wally pouted but gave up on the dramatics when Dick only gave him an unamused look, he settled onto the stool.

“so,” Wally began, watching as Dick put the vegetables and ham in the pan to fry off, “how’s life?”

“how much did Conner tell you?”

Wally shrugged, “that Deathstroke brought you back to life with a serum that gave you enhancements. And that you could help me.”

Dick fixed him with a look, “and what exactly do you need _help_ with?”

“uh,” Wally swallowed, “I…”

Dick waited patiently.

“I… just need to figure out what’s wrong with me.” Wally gave Dick a heavy stare, then tapped his temple, “there’s something wrong up here. I… the central city attack, that was me, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to, couldn’t control it,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I just… I need help, I don’t know where to get it but I can’t go to Barry.”

“why not?”

“why _not_?” Wally spluttered, laughing slightly. “you’re kidding? I killed 28 people and injured 74-“

“thirty confirmed dead,” Dick said, cracking two eggs into a bowl and whisking in the milk, “eighty-nine injured.”

Wally froze, then croaked out, “thirty?”

Dick hummed, then poured the egg-milk mixture over the pieces already in the pan, reaching for the spatula once more, “if you’d have gone for the adjacent street you’d probably have killed thirty-seven, actually.”

Wally stared wide eyed at the bench, then said with a high pitched and tight voice, “oh?”

Dick looked at him through his fringe, before focusing on the pan once more.

“how can you be so calm about that?” Wally asked, fidgeting with his hands on the benches, “I’m… Dick, I’m a serial killer now-“

“no you’re a mass murderer,” Dick corrected, “all the deaths occurred at one instance. Serial killings occur over a period of time.”

“you are not helping in the slightest.”

“I’m helping,” Dick said, completely nonchalant, “just not in the way you want. You want someone to sit here and baby you, to babble about how it’s not your fault, you poor baby, and how you mustn’t take the blame and responsibility.” Dick gave Wally an indifferent look, “Wally, you may not have meant it, it may have been accident, but you killed thirty people and hurt eighty-nine. You have to learn to live with that. You have to decide how you will move forward with your life in the wake of this. Continuing to look for someone to absolve you of sin isn’t going to help you.”

“I… Dick, I didn’t mean it-“

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Dick said, “but it happened. Why are you trying to convince me it isn’t your fault? I don’t care. I care about whether you’re going to start blubbering about it or move on. Stop asking for forgiveness, it’s not going to help.”

Wally watched him silently as he moved the scrambled eggs in the pan so they didn’t just become an omelette, “how can you not care? Rule number one is ‘we don’t kill’.”

Dick snorted, “oh, Wally, you’ve missed a lot,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned forward, “I don’t care about thirty dead people on your conscience, my kill count’s much higher.”

Wally froze, staring at him.

“hell,” Dick shrugged, focusing back on the food, “I’ve killed more than that in one contract.”

Wally continued to stare.

“what the hell happened to you?” Wally asked, voice slightly hollow.

Dick raised an eyebrow, “I died, and then I came back, and that tends to ruin any views on the _sanctity_ of life. Moreover, I then had to live with Slade,” Dick said, allowing Wally to see a slight smirk on his face, “so really, what the hell _didn’t_ happen to me?”

Wally continued to watch him with surprise that was beginning to border on horror.

“you were the best of us,” Wally said, voice empty as he watched Dick turn the heat down on the hotplate, “and now you’re… this?”

Dick’s hand stilled momentarily over the dial of the hotplate.

Dick had never died before, so he found himself taking several moments of shock before it sunk in.

By that point, the blade had been removed from his chest and he collapsed. He tried to suck air into his lungs but it seemed to stutter out and disappear once it got into his chest.

There were hands around him. Why were there hands around him? Was Batman here? Had Bruce arrived just a second too late? No, he couldn’t feel the cape. Was it Wally? No, they were too big. Who-

He managed to move his neck, just a little, and his sight was filled with an orange and black blur.

Oh.

Deathstroke.

Deathstroke was holding him while he failed to breath. His vision was swimming, blurred and falling apart. Deathstroke was holding him, stroking a hand through his hair, holding him close against his chest. He was warm, even with the armour he was wearing, and smelled like gun oil and smoke and metal.

And he was dying.

It was all blurry from there. Distant. He was moved several times but he couldn’t keep track anymore and eventually it all slipped from him. The air stopped, he gave up trying to get it in, and his head pounded, and he couldn’t say anything.

And it was dark. And cold. And strange. And lonely. And-

He shot up on the bench, hearing the beep of a machine, the sound of his breath in his ears, the rustle of paper under a fan, the whir of technology, all a cacophony in his ears. The sheets were rough against his skin, he was cold and hot and both at the same time. His throat was dry, his chest ached, he was shaking uncontrollably and everything was _wrong_ , _strange_ , his body felt like it was swirling on itself, tied up in knots.

He was breathing heavily, whipping his head around in confused fear. Where was he? Why was he here? How?

There were hands on him.

He jumped, the skin was so _rough_ , and scrambled away, falling off the side of the bed. His stomach lurched, he was still shaking, the beeping from the machine was loud and fast and reverberating in his skull.

“easy, easy,” a voice said, and it was coming closer, and the hands were back on him, and Dick writhed, trying to break free, his stomach twisted.

The hands guided him to a bucket just in time for Dick to throw up. There was nothing in his stomach except dregs and acid and he spent several moments dry heaving. He was still shaking, sweating uncontrollably, everything felt _wrong_. He wanted to cry.

A hand was rubbing circles into his shoulder and Dick flinched away from it, curling in an attempt to move away. A cloth wiped away the sick on his chin, and then the hands returned, lifting him to his feet and placing him back on the bed he’d woken on.

Dick moaned, feeling his entire body light up in pain, in furious retribution.

“relax kid,” the voice ordered, “get some sleep.”

“Bruce?” he manage to mutter out, looking up from where his head was lying in a pillow. He couldn’t see Bruce. All he managed to make out through blurry vision was a tall, well-built body with white hair.

“Bruce isn’t here kid,” the voice said, petting his hair with a slow hand, “he isn’t coming.”

“what…” Dick frowned, head pounded, “where… who ‘re you?”

“you know me,” the voice said, “try to remember.”

Dick’s vision swam and then slowly started to focus, the light was so bright, but he could make out some features.

Dick shot back against the wall by the head of the bed, legs whipping wildly through the air as he tried to get some distance between him and the person because they were-

Slade Wilson. Deathstroke. The man who’d killed him.

Slade leaned forward and grabbed Dick by the arms, pulling him back down to the bed.

Dick shook his head wildly, muttering over and over “no, no, no, no, no,” under his breath as he tried to get away but Slade was strong and Dick was panicking so it really wasn’t much of a fight.

“breathe, breathe,” Slade said, continuing to hold Dick, pulling him into his arms to restrain him, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 _No_ , Dick thought frantically, _you’ve already done that_.

“I’ve got you,” Slade said.

“let go,” Dick whined, “I- _no_ , don’t touch me!”

But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t get out of Slade’s grip.

He sobbed, breath heaving in and out. _What was going on? Why was Slade doing this?_

Slade’s hands were running through his hair once more, a warm touch massaging against his scalp. Dick wanted to lean into it, to chase that comfort, but he knew he couldn’t, shouldn’t.

But Slade held him anyway, no matter how much Dick wanted him to stop. Eventually he collapsed, passing out against Slade’s chest from hyperventilating.

Dick shoved Wally’s plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.

“what? Not even going to defend yourself-“

“Wally,” Dick said, with the same deathly cold that he’d learned from Slade, “any time you’d like to stop talking I’d appreciate it.”

Dick left his own plate on the bench, deciding he’d eat it later. Instead he walked down the hall a ways and dialled Rose, leaning his shoulder against the wall as he held the phone to his ear.

It dialled for a few moments, and then picked up. Rose’s voice exploded against his ear, “Dick!”

“hey Princess,” he said, smiling lightly, “how are you this morning?”

“Amazing!” Rose claimed, “Wintergreen let me eat Pancakes for breakfast! With Maple syrup!”

“he _what_?’ Dick asked, with feigned shock, “what a controversy, how could he, he never let me eat pancakes, I demand my own share.”

Rose giggled, “well come and get them then.”

Dick chuckled, “can’t, sorry,” he said, hoping she didn’t take it too badly, “something’s come up, I won’t be home for a bit longer.”

“what?” Rose whined, and he could perfectly picture her pout, “what do you mean? Why not? how much longer?”

“shouldn’t be more than a week,” Dick sighed.

“but you said you wouldn’t take another contract till you came home!”

“this isn’t a contract,” Dick said, glancing down the hallway, “it’s… complicated. I’m helping someone out. I’ll be home by the end of the week, I promise.”

“yeah, but you said you promised before.”

“come on Rosie,” Dick said, closing his eyes, “can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Silence for a while, then, “I don’t know…” she mused, “what’ll you give me to make me forgive you?”

Dick chuckled lowly, “I’ve taught you far too well.”

“you bet you have!” Rose said cheekily, “I want a trip to Laos and Vietnam.”

“I see,” Dick said, “that seems like a fair trade.”

“good,” Rose said, “pleasure doing business with you.”

“you’re beginning to sound like your father.”

“ew,” she said, and Dick could imagine her poking her tongue out, “meanie.”

Dick heard someone in the background, the sounds were followed by Rose saying, “I’m talking to Dick.” And then more light noise, “ _no_ , we’re not done talking.” And a muffled sigh and a few words, then “ _fine_.”

The phone was passed to someone else and Dick greeted them calmly with a warm, “Billy, how are you?”

“better now I’ve managed to get a hold of you.”

“aww, you do care.”

“I believe that was established a while ago,” Wintergreen sighed, “do you have a minute?”

“of course,” Dick said, shifting so his back was against the wall.

“really? It sounded like you found more work to do.”

“it’s complicated, I’m helping a…” Dick glanced once more down the hallway, “friend.”

“you have those?”

“funny.”

“I’m serious,” Wintergreen scoffed, “well, if you’re not working, I did that research you asked for in relation to Count Vertigo’s movements.”

“and Psimon?”

“there’s less chatter about him, but I’ve got something to show for my investigating.”

“I want to hear everything.”

Wintergreen began outlining everything he’d discovered, Dick chiming in to ask questions here and there. He kept track of everything he was saying mentally, piecing things together in a literal mind-map that only he could see, let alone understand.

His eyes flicked to the end of the hallway when he heard Wally shifting, and soon he appeared there. He was silhouetted slightly and his hair had turned fluffy, his wide green eyes staring at Dick almost made him look mildly innocent.

“and what about movements in Qurac?” Dick asked Wintergreen, tearing his eyes away from Wally and back to the opposite wall.

Wally frowned and walked over to him, standing a metre from him, and continuing to stare.

Dick paid little mind, listening to what Wintergreen was telling him.

“who are you talking to?” Wally asked.

Dick gave him an unimpressed look but didn’t deign to answer him otherwise.

“and what about _Rosalind Duplessit_?” Dick asked.

“several sightings around Vertigo,” Wintergreen answered, “as well as Chester Dssit.”

Dick snorted, “jeez, why not just name them two-faced and liar?”

“what?” Wally frowned, then shook his head and dismissed it, “Dick we need to talk.”

Dick held the phone back from his mouth, hissed, “later, I’m busy,” then returned to his original conversation.

Wally scowled, “don’t ‘later’ me.” He drew himself up confidently, “Dick, we _need_ to talk. Now.”

Dick rolled his eyes at Wally’s antics but continued to focus on what Wintergreen was telling him.

“there is no way whatever conversation you’re having is more important than this.”

“one second, Billy,” Dick said, then held the phone to his chest, “and what exactly are you referring to when you say ‘this’, Wally?”

Wally spluttered, “I’ve been dead for ten years, I come back and you’re like this!” he gestured to Dick, up and down, which earned him only a mildly amused smirk, “Conner told me to come for you to help, so what can you do? What do… what do _I_ do?”

“yeah, okay, Wally,” Dick said, “this is far more important, go sit down, maybe turn the TV on, okay, surely there’s a cartoon on, I’m working.” He took the few steps towards the room he’d allotted as a study while he was in Happy Harbour, but Wally sped between him and the door at the last second.

“are you shitting me right now?”

“I don’t believe so, no,” Dick said, slowly becoming more frustrated. The serum had given him a short temper- or rather shortened the temper he already had- much like Slade, but he had been expected to learn to control it, also much like Slade, and he held himself to a high bar in that regard. Nevertheless, Wally was beginning to irk him, and he didn’t exactly have any stakes or care as to what Wally might think of him if he were to snap.

Wally scowled, “Dick-“

“I’m. working.” Dick cut in, giving Wally a hard stare, “my life doesn’t stop just because you’ve popped up to become a pain in my ass.”

“ _working_ ,” Wally hissed, “what kind of work does a dead man do?”

Dick narrowed his eyes, reached past Wally, and opened the door.

Wally turned, eyes landing on-

The Deathstroke suit and armour, lying on the table where Dick had left it to air out and dry after cleaning it at the end of his mission.

Wally stared.

Dick raised the phone back to his ear, “I’m gonna have to call you back, Billy.”

“try not to stir too much shit.”

Dick snorted and hung up, sliding the phone back into his pocket. He crossed his arms and stayed behind Wally, waiting for him to make the first move.

“what,” he said, “the ever-loving fuck.”

Dick swallowed down the bite of food, forcing it to stay down. It tasted fine, smelled fine, but his stomach rebelled against everything these days.

The upside was, however, that designated mealtimes were a half hour that didn’t involve any training. There was no way Slade could turn eating food into a lesson.

He was almost done. Just a few more bites and then he could stop forcing the food down his throat.

Slade walked up behind him and dropped a bag on the table in front of him.

Dick watched it with a wary eye, and then followed Slade with his gaze as the mercenary entered the kitchen and began cleaning dishes. Dick finished his meal slowly, not bothering to ask any questions. He took a sip of water, picked up his dishes and walked them to the sink to wash them.

When he was finished, Slade was standing next to the table, the bag waiting unassumingly. It had sounded heavy when it had landed on the wood, but other than that Dick had no hints as to what was inside.

Dick waited, and Slade gestured to the bag, “open it.”

Dick clenched his jaw and stepped forward, hands finding the zip on the duffel and pulling it down.

“everything in this bag is yours,” Slade explained, standing with his arms crossed and watching with a keen eye, “you will be expected to take care of all of it, maintain it. this equipment can and will save your life in the field.”

Dick took hold of the first thing he saw, sitting on top of the well-packed pile of gear. It was a mask similar to Deathstroke’s own, with a hard metallic front and cloth back. It was split down the middle, black on one side and dark red the other.

His hands were shaking as they held it, and he gripped them tight around the metal to combat it.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. It was a question he’d been trying to answer himself without begging for Slade to deign to give him an explanation.

“I’m training you.”

“I won’t kill for you, I won’t work for you,” Dick scowled, “the only way this ends is with you killing me or giving up.”

Slade smiled ever so slightly, “put the gear on.”

“why?”

“because I told you,” Slade said, voice firm.

Dick grit his teeth. But he put the mask back in the bag and lifted it, heading for the bathroom. There was no point arguing on such a small thing. He could put the gear on and continue the fight with a weapon in his hand. There was no point standing his ground on something that wouldn’t matter.

He forced himself not to focus on what it was he was doing, on the implications of it. once upon a time he’d become so well accustomed to slipping on a set of gear that he’d been able to do it in a minute. His hands had known the straps, the belt, the fastenings by heart, by habit. That uniform had been as well known to him as the back of his hand.

This was new, and strange, but it felt somewhat comforting and familiar to go through such comparable movements. 

He returned to the room Slade waited in, the mask clipped to the belt around his waist. The rest of the gear was similar to Slade’s own, with maroon-red accents to match Slade’s copper-orange, and straps on his back empty and waiting to have twin swords sheathed.

Slade looked him up and down, eye moving slowly over the armour. He reached out to fix a clasp Dick hadn’t managed to do to his standards.

“good,” he said, then turned, “follow.”

Slade lead him down several halls, then to a door that opened to a staircase that lead down. Dick followed, trying not to make it obvious how unnerved he was by the whole situation.

The staircase lead to a dungeon. Slade had a fucking dungeon. Because of course he did, why was Dick surprised?

Slade lead him down the corridor of cells, and Dick tried not to wonder as to what kinds of things had happened down here.

He came to a cell with people inside, opening it with a key and an eye-scan. He gestured Dick in first and then followed behind.

There were four people. Three small children huddled together against the right wall, and one adult man in the centre of the cell. All four had bags over their heads.

There was a table against the left wall with tools spread out on it, Dick tore his eyes away and forced himself not to focus on them, instead analysing the cement wall.

Slade picked up an item from the table and walked back to Dick, holding out a black case.

Dick stared at it, Slade waited patiently, so he opened the clasps on the case and lifted the lid.

It revealed a sleek, black pistol.

“pick it up, familiarise yourself with the weapon.”

Dick felt a little sick. Bruce had taught him how to handle a firearm, how to load and fire and make sure the safety was on. But Bruce had a well-founded fear of firearms and thus never touched them if he didn’t have to. Dick didn’t have that fear or experience, but he found himself staring at it and only being able to imagine two parents falling around their still living son, screams echoing in an alley and blood turning white pearls red.

Dick forced himself to take a shuddering breath in and lifted the weapon from the case.

He looked at it long enough to recognise that it was an M-series Glock, he recognised it from his small amount of experience with agents and the FBI. It would have a decent bit of kickback but not enough to fuck up the aim of someone who knew what they were doing.

Dick swallowed, holding the gun semi-awkwardly.

Slade walked to the man sitting in the middle of the cell, cuffed. He took the bag from his head so Dick could see his face. It was heavily bruised and red and it looked like he’d been blubbering long enough that he could no longer cry as he blinked dazedly and stared at Dick imploringly.

Slade walked calmly between the man and the three children on the other side of the cell. He waited, hands behind his back.

“shoot him.”

He said the two words casually. As if he had asked Dick to breathe, or blink, or look at something. He said it as if he had no idea why the order would make Dick panic.

“what?” he asked, breathless, suddenly wanting the pistol in his hand to be _very_ far away from him.

“Shoot him,” Slade repeated, “now, preferably.”

“I- what? Slade-“

The backhand was unexpected.

Slade hadn’t shied away from hitting him or yelling at him or being an ass in general. He had been forcing Dick to train, to learn from him, which brought plenty of bruises, but Dick enjoyed back talking which just produced more.

But usually there was some build up. Some tension.

Dick pulled himself from the floor, the gun had clattered and was now lying on the ground unassumingly.

“pick it up,” Slade said, once Dick had stood, “and shoot him. I will not ask again.”

Dick grit his teeth and stared Slade down.

Rule number one was no killing. That was Bruce’s _rule number one_. Dick couldn’t go back on that, _wouldn’t_. no matter what. He’d rather die. He’d rather die a man with no blood on his hands than be rescued from this hell only to be cast out by the man who trained and raised him.

“no.”

Slade nodded. Then in one smooth movement he took a pistol from his own person, turned, and fired into the bag-covered head of one of the children.

Dick lurched forward. To do what he didn’t know. Slade never missed a shot, the child would be dead no matter what Dick tried to do.

Slade caught him anyway, so he couldn’t embarrass himself by attempting to save a corpse.

“Pick up the gun,” Slade said once more, “and shoot him.” He gestured to the man, “or I will kill the other two.”

Dick was shaking again, breath starting to become shorter, as he stared at the man.

Slade gave him a kind look, an understanding look, a pitying look.

“the Bat has deluded you,” Slade said, “brainwashed you to believe his ridiculous and illogical views. It’s understandable. But it is time to let go of that.” He held Dick by the chin, craning his neck up, “you’re not the Bat’s brat anymore, you’re my apprentice, and you will achieve far greater things by my side than you ever could dream of if you continued to be stuck, wasting your potential on that broken man’s useless crusade.”

“you’re wrong.”

“oh, little bird,” Slade murmured, “it’s okay. Wayne never understood you the way I do, but I know there’s anger in your heart, and a determination to do something in the world.” He rubbed his thumb against Dick’s cheek, “you were wasted with those imbecilic heroes.”

He let go of Dick’s chin, then picked the gun up from the floor and put it in Dick’s hand, moving his fingers to force him to hold it.

“this man,” Slade said, “is a rapist. He sells drugs to minors and he kills for a mobster just to make money that he doesn’t need. The system you threw him into as Robin let him go, let him return to the streets where he could continue to abuse and misuse.”

Slade’s hands left Dick’s and trailed up his shoulders as he stood behind him in a mockery of an embrace. He crouched and plastered his own hands and arms along Dick’s, guiding him into a stance and holding the gun up. His finger was over Dick’s own, hovering above the trigger.

“fire,” Slade ordered, his voice in Dick’s ear.

Dick swallowed, staring at the man.

He couldn’t.

He was a repeat offender and a horrible person and he knew that that was why Slade had chosen him and he knew that no one would miss him and he knew that his absence in the world would only make it better _but_ -

But they could not be judge, jury and executioner. They had no right to decide. And they could not let themselves hold that kind of power, could not risk themselves losing conscience and abusing it.

Slade lead Dick’s arm away from the man, and the gun settled on the two children remaining.

Slade’s finger pressed down on Dick’s own, and Dick had only a moment to realise what he was doing before it was too late.

And the bullet fired. And the child died. And Dick’s finger was the one pulling the trigger.

He lurched in Slade’s grip, trying to break free, but Slade held him, had an all-encompassing embrace around him that left no room for movement. Dick squirmed and shrieked and at some point felt a tear fall down his eye but Slade did not budge.

When Dick began to calm down he guided Dick’s aim back to the man.

“last time,” he said, “shoot him.”

Dick sobbed, staring at the man and his swollen eyes and he told himself that it was okay. That Bruce would _understand_.

He took a deep breath in. he squeezed his eyes shut.

And he fired.

Slade pressed a kiss to his head, holding him as he continued to tremble.

“you need to keep your eyes open,” he said, “and I want you to remember.”

Dick opened his eyes, looking up at Slade as best he could as the man re-aimed the pistol once more.

“You follow my orders without question.”

Slade pressed down on Dick’s finger and the trigger went with it, seven pounds of pressure and then a bullet fired and the third child dropped with a hole in her skull.

“and you follow them immediately. The first time I give them.”

Dick could only stare. He heard a ring in his ears and felt an emptiness in chest, but nothing else existed as he stared at the pools of red spreading across the ground.

When Slade let go of him he fell, collapsing to his knees and shoulders dropping as all that held him up was the inability to draw his eyes away.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. He didn’t keep track. He watched as the blood pooled and spread and reached his knees. He watched as the blood stopped spreading and darkened and the edges began to dry.

Slade returned, after some time, and gently raised him up from under his shoulders, then lifted him bridal style. Dick’s head dropped against his chest, his now-enhanced hearing picking up the sound of Slade’s heartbeat as loud as thunder in his ears. Past that nothing existed aside from the warmth of Slade’s body and the smell of his cologne.

He remained distant, remained pliant. He could only see bodies in his sight, could only see red. He blinked and the children were his team, he blinked and the man was Bruce, he blinked and he was lying among fellow corpses and he blinked and he was standing before Batman, being cast out without thought.

Slade sat him on his bed, held a glass of water to his lips and made him drink it, then stripped him of the uniform and lowered him into a bathtub. Dick wasn’t sure when he came back to reality but it was somewhere along the way, right before Slade lowered him into his bed and turned to walk away.

Dick’s hand caught his wrist, and Slade stopped, leaning back to look at him with a raised eyebrow and questioning look. Dick only gripped his arm in response.

In his mind all he heard was Bruce’s voice telling him all that he’d done wrong, telling him every way he’d broken his trust, every way he’d ruined the promises he’d made to do _good_.

In his mind all he heard was the people he loved turning him away and casting him aside and in his mind there was only one person who wanted him and he was standing _right there_ and-

And he wanted a hug. And he didn’t want him to go.

Slade picked him up again, carried him to his own room, and Dick fell asleep curled against him.

Wally left Dick alone after that.

He could hear him shuffling around in the lounge room of the safe house. He turned the news on at some point and Dick let the white noise filter to the back of his mind.

He almost expected Wally to turn tail and run; go and find someone else to help him. Artemis would. She’d know exactly how to handle the whole situation. She was good with people like that, Dick wasn’t overly sure how or when she’d developed that skill, but Dick was sure she could take one look at Wally and figure out whatever screw was loose in his brain. She’d know what to do about it to.

Dick couldn’t even figure out what screws were loose in his _own_ brain, let alone _fix_ them. Let alone care about _somebody else._

Well.

He could care about Rose. And Wintergreen. But wintergreen could take care of himself and Rose without batting an eye, in all honesty Dick was quite sure he’d have been driven insane in the past few months as he attempted to keep Slade’s criminal empire together if he’d been alone. And looking after Rose was something he chose to do, not because Slade asked him to, and he did love her. She was a great kid and Dick hoped she’d have a better future than he did at her age.

But whatever. Wally stayed, so now Dick had _another_ person to give a damn about.

At least it was Wally. At least that meant Wally was _alive_ -

But he didn’t let himself go down the path that was relieved because if he did it would make keeping up the act a lot harder and it would make doing his job a lot harder and it would make staying away from Wally a lot harder and-

Look. He didn’t need this. He was a mercenary, helping people wasn’t his ballpark.

He sighed as he picked up the phone. Wintergreen had grown tired of waiting for him to call back and instead taken the initiative.

“talk.”

“you first.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose but gave in.

“I’m not lying when I say it’s not a contract,” he said.

“so what is it?”

Dick slumped towards one side of his chair, leaning his head against it at an awkward angle that he somehow found comfortable.

“Conner sent someone my way,” Dick said.

“Lex’s super clone?”

“that’s the one.”

“who’d he send?”

Dick hesitated a moment and then gave in, “the person behind the Central City attack. Turns out it was…” he closed his eyes, breathing out through his nose, “Kid Flash. He’s been stuck in the speed force. The escape caused some form of upheaval and he wasn’t entirely in his right mind.”

A pause and then, “I see.”

“Conner sent him my way. Told him I’d help.”

“and will you?”

“what the hell would I do?”

“well what’s wrong with him? What ‘help’ does he want?”

“he’s not even sure,” Dick grumbled, “he thinks there’s something wrong with his head and I’m inclined to agree. When I found him he seemed to be on the tail end of a panic attack or a psychotic episode. He was hallucinating something and a little delirious.”

Wintergreen hummed, “you think it was caused by the speed force?”

“I think being alone for ten years would give anyone some form of mental scar.”

“yes,” Wintergreen sighed, “I’m sure you can relate to the aftereffects of isolation.”

_Slade was silhouetted against the light, a dark hunk of shadow._

_“so long as you continue to act like an ungrateful child with the mind of an animal, you will stay in here.”_

_The door clanged shut._

“I was only ever isolated for a few weeks at most. Usually only days.” Dick ran a hand through his hair as he straightened in his seat, “and we have no idea what kind environment the speed force presents itself as.”

 _He’d thought at first that it was preferable to stay in the dark. That he couldn’t hurt anyone there. He couldn’t be_ forced _to hurt anyone there. But the cold felt like knives and the silence sounded like whispers and the dark felt like an embrace that was slowly suffocating him and-_

“I’ll do some research. Especially on the psychological side of things,” Wintergreen said, “you never know, maybe Rose would like to learn about it in her home schooling.”

“just don’t teach her enough to be able to psychoanalyse me,” Dick snorted.

“no, I’ll do that for her,” Wintergreen huffed, “it’ll take a couple hours though and you won’t like what I have to say.”

“I think we can skip that last part.” Dick stood from his chair, headed for the door, “call me when you’ve got any ideas.”

He hung up once Wintergreen had given his acknowledgement of the request, then put the phone back in his pocket.

What was he supposed to do with Wally? How was he supposed to ‘help’ him? Wally didn’t even know what he wanted.

Dick took a deep breath, opened the door, and made his way down the hall.

Wally was curled on the couch, watching the news.

“still here then?” Dick asked, crossing his arms.

Wally pursed his lips then said, “I’m trying to decide what I think of you.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, “it’s taking you a while.”

Wally snorted, “there’s a lot to consider.”

Dick rolled his eyes and sat on the couch adjacent to the one Wally was sitting in, “you still don’t know what you want to do?”

“I know I can’t face my uncle. Not yet at least. Not until I’ve figured out my powers and sorted out what’s wrong with my head.”

“there’s nothing wrong with your head,” Dick scoffed, “it’s a response to trauma. You’ve been through some shit and now your brain is in a new environment that it no longer knows how to navigate. There’s no broken pieces or sickness or injury- you’ve got PTSD.”

Wally fixed Dick with a considering look, then said, “is that how you explain away your own kill count?”

“no,” Dick said, “I’m not suffering from psychotic episodes. I’m just fucked beyond repair.”

Wally blinked, then returned his gaze to the tv, “everything is wrong. Conner’s working for Luthor. You’re an assassin-“

“mercenary.”

“mercenaries are ex-military.”

“I know.”

Wally gave him an incredulous look. Dick shrugged.

“Slade wanted me to be trained in all the ways he was, to have all the different experiences and fighting styles.”

“so he enlisted you in the army.”

“under a fake identity of course. And not in America.”

Wally shook his head with a bewildered look.

“okay,” Dick said, drawing himself to sit up straight, “Wally I have three options for you.”

Wally returned his full attention to Dick.

“I can find you a way to get to the League, through someone other than Flash. They can definitely sort this out, give you the help you need.”

“no,” Wally said, “I can’t-“

“let me finish,” Dick cut in, “the second option. I can set you up somewhere. A new life, new identity, a job, a house. You can try to acclimatise yourself and organise your life a little and then when you’re ready you can approach the league.

“or,” Dick sighed, “I doubt you’ll be interested, but…” he shrugged, “if you’re fine with living with Deathstroke the Terminator, you can spend a month with me. I’m gonna start getting busier eventually, once enough people notice that Deathstroke didn’t die with Slade Wilson, but if you’d like to lay low for a month there’s no safer place than with me. I’m a pro at avoiding the authorities and the league.”

Wally blinked, “you’d actually be willing to lug me around with you?”

“you’re not going on missions with me,” Dick stated, “but if you’re hanging around my safe houses the only contact you make with people will be controlled and opened by yourself, and it will give you a chance to get exposed to this life again after so long out of the game.”

Wally stared at the coffee table, with that specific face he had whenever he thought. Dick remembered it from when he was a kid and he found himself unable to keep looking at him.

“I’ll give you some time to decide,” Dick said, “but if you decide to stay, we’ll be headed to a different safe house tomorrow morning as a stop over to make sure no one’s tailing us, and then we’ll move on to my more permanent place of residence.”

“you have one of those?”

Dick rolled his eyes and stood, “ _ha_ , what do you want for dinner, I’m going grocery shopping.”

“don’t you have food?”

“I was going to leave here midday yesterday,” Dick explained, “Conner asked me to stick around for an extra 24 hours.”

“oh.” Wally said, “can we have pizza?”

Dick wrinkled his nose, “it’s so oily.”

Wally looked scandalised, “so?”

Dick sighed, “fine. I’ll make pizza.”

“why not order from dominoes?”

“don’t push it.” Dick headed to the kitchen to scan what was in there before making a mental list of everything he needed to buy.

Wally shot him a grin once Dick was back in his line of sight, and Dick tried to push down and ignore the warm feeling in his chest when he saw it.

He didn’t realise how much he’d missed that smile.

Dick watched the bubbles flick around the water, clouds of dirt slowly beginning to appear.

He blanked out, staring at the shifting of the light on the disturbed surface. The sponge in his hand and the material of his uniform in the other.

He didn’t hear Slade walk in, wasn’t paying attention.

He’d spied the newspaper in his hands that morning, watched as Slade read through it. he’d caught the date on the front page.

April 1st.

His parents had been dead five years.

He watched the water move, eyes distant as he imagined his mother’s face.

He could remember her brown eyes, her auburn hair, her kind smile. He could remember the feeling in his chest when she laughed and the absolute trust and love he felt when he was caught by her arms as he leapt from a bar on the trapeze.

He could not remember the exact shade of brown, if it held flecks of other colours or changed from one side of the iris to the other. He couldn’t remember if her hair was soft or not, if it was always as light as he thought it was or if it was only that magnificent when caught in the sun’s rays. He couldn’t remember how she sounded when she laughed or when she talked, he couldn’t remember how she walked and moved, and he couldn’t remember if her hands felt rough and calloused folded around his own.

He couldn’t remember the little things, they were shifting by his eyes just like the light on the water but unlike the light he could never see them again.

He hadn’t heard Slade walk in, nor did he hear whatever clipped phrase he sent in his direction. He didn’t register as Slade asked him a question and he didn’t notice the man getting frustrated as he marched over.

He noticed when Slade grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. He jerked with a gasp, blinking his eyes back into focus as he felt Slade tug him up to standing.

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, I-“ the words were flowing past his lips already. He didn’t want to go back into that cold, dark, quiet room. He didn’t want Slade to call him _disobedient_ again, to talk about how he still hadn’t learned _respect_ and to make him press his hands against the wall while Slade whipped him.

Most of all, he didn’t want Slade to realise why he was spacing out. He didn’t want him to know. He didn’t want him to have more ammunition to use as a way of getting under his skin.

“what’s gotten into you?”

“I- I don’t know, I’m just- just distracted,” Dick said, eyes trailed on the ground, “I wasn’t paying attention. I apologise. It won’t happen again.”

The words shot past his lips without thought, and Dick was saying them, making the conscious effort to speak, but he couldn’t help but feel like his head was still sitting, watching the water move, watching the light, watching time tick by as all he could think of was how disappointed his mother would be in him.

Slade was silent, watching Dick with a keen eye.

He crooked a finger under Dick’s chin and raised his head. Dick swallowed down his fear and withheld the shiver attempting to trail down his spine.

“where are you?” Slade asked, “you’re head seems far away, little bird, what has you distracted?”

Dick blinked, staring at Slade’s eye, looking for the sign that he wasn’t genuinely asking him.

“I-“ Dick hesitated.

Slade raised an eyebrow, “I asked you a question.”

Dick forced his lip not to tremble, “my parents died five years ago, on this day.”

Slade nodded slowly, “I see.” His hand trailed up his cheek until it rested behind his head, fingers carding through his hair in that perfect comforting motion that Dick _loved_ , and Slade knew as much. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could fight the impulse to lean into it.

“and you’re distracted,” Slade elaborated, “stuck inside you head. Too worried thinking about the people in your past who _used_ to care about you.”

Dick screwed his eyes shut, forced them not to prick with tears, clenched his jaw against the need to suck in a breath a little too close to a sob.

“I…” he didn’t know what to say. If he should deny it, if he should accept it, but what was the point in denying the truth? Especially when the both of them knew it to be, “yes,” he said breathless.

“let go of the people who used to care about you,” Slade murmured, “they don’t anymore. They’re gone. And those who live on would want nothing to do with you.”

Dick couldn’t quite hold back the sharp inhale at that, the burn that was slowly appearing in his eyes.

“But I want you,” Slade said in his ear, voice low and breath hot, “I’m not going anywhere, little bird, I’ll take care of you.”

Dick let a sob past clenched teeth as he leaned forward into Slade’s chest, letting the man scoop him up and hold him.

God Dick just wanted to be _held_. To be cared for, for someone to tell him they’d catch him if he fell, that it was okay and they loved him and he wasn’t a mistake, a stain on existence, a disappointment, or a waste of space.

And Slade was _right there_ , was telling him everything, doing all the right things and-

And he knew it was wrong but Slade was all he had, and maybe… maybe he should be grateful for that. Maybe he should be glad that Slade wanted him, after everything. Slade was amazing, the best of the best, successful and confident and capable and everything Dick wasn’t but wanted to be and he _wanted_ Dick, wanted him there, wanted him to stay, wanted him to learn from him.

Dick didn’t break out into a sobbing fit but he cried quietly into Slade’s shoulder as the man carried him to his room. That was okay, Dick was tired, he wanted to sleep and last time Slade had let him sleep with him he’d been warm and comfortable and he’d woken up refreshed and Dick just wanted someone to _hold him_.

Slade laid him out on the bed and-

After that it was…

It was hands and skin and breath and- and confusion and-

Wait.

He didn’t want this.

“Slade?” the word broke past his lips as he frowned, feeling air hit his skin that- there should be clothes there, he was-

“ssh,” Slade’s voice was above him and his arms were around him, “ssh, little bird, it’s okay.”

“Slade? I- wait.” He pressed his hands against his chest, feeling skin, skin, skin, and the cold air on it all and hot breath against his neck and- “I- _no_ , Slade-“

Lips against his and the scratch of a beard and-

No, no, no, no, no-

He writhed, trying to move, trying to _leave_ -

“relax, little bird,” Slade crooned, “I’ll take care of you, you’ll enjoy it, it’s okay.”

“no, Slade, I-“

“ssh.” A hand in his hair and a mouth against his neck and another hand trailing down his chest going down- down- down- “it’ll hurt, but it’s okay, little bird, I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you.”

Dick woke up feeling-

Sore.

His back hurt and his-

He groaned, shifting on the mattress, curled up on himself. Everything _hurt_ , why did everything _hurt_?

He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his head into the pillow, burrowing further into the blankets. He was warm and comfy aside from the pain, if only it would just _go away_.

And someone was holding him. Embracing him from behind, he could feel their breath against his ear.

Slade.

Oh.

Wait.

Why was he…

The memories were slow, and he couldn’t quite process them, but once he did he slammed the lid shut and locked it because _no_ -

He- he didn’t- he couldn’t- what-

 _No_.

But he was naked, and sore, and Slade was pressed against his back and-

He focused on his breathing. Focused on keeping it steady.

Slade woke up soon after. Or maybe he’d already been awake and was just waiting for Dick to come to his senses. He pressed a kiss against the base of his neck and Dick shied away, pressing into the mattress and recoiling.

Slade let out a huff of breath that Dick recognised as a small laugh thanks to how much time he’d spent around the man. He then pressed another kiss to the underside of Dick’s jaw.

“stay here,” he said, voice quiet and low, then unwrapped his arms from Dick and slid out of the bed.

Dick was perfectly happy to do so. He was perfectly happy to curl up into as small a ball as possible, to fold in on himself over and over like a piece of paper until he became the smallest thing in the world, until he ceased to exist.

He refused to believe that- that _that_ had- that _Slade_ had-

He was going to be sick.

Slade returned soon, placed something on the bedside table. His hands brushed Dick’s skin and he recoiled immediately, curling into a tighter ball.

Slade sighed, but came closer, hands tugging Dick’s limbs apart till he could manoeuvre him to sit up. All the while Dick pulled against him, trying to break free. He thought of begging, considered it, but it hadn’t done him much good the night before. Instead he just tried his best to fight, regardless of the pain in his _everywhere_ , and failed to win out. Slade tugged him into a sitting position against the headboard and Dick fixed him with a fearful look.

Slade reached to his nightstand, and then held out what he’d put there.

Two pills and a glass of water.

Dick thought he might laugh. Maybe that was the best reaction to this- hysterics. It was the only one he could think of other than curling up in a ball and breaking down, and he honestly preferred it to a temper tantrum in front of the man who’d just-

Who’d just-

Holy shit.

“take it, it’ll make you feel better,” Slade said, and his tone sounded _amused_.

Dick did as told, because once Slade vocalised that he wanted Dick to do something then it became an order and Dick _had_ to follow orders. He couldn’t afford not to. The pain wasn’t worth it, and considering Slade had just-

Well. It seemed the line Dick thought he wouldn’t cross when it came to hurting him didn’t exist after all.

So he swallowed down the tablets, and he drank the water. And he put his underwear and shirt back on when Slade told him to and followed him out of the bedroom for two steps before he leaned against the wall with a wince.

Slade smiled, eternally amused, with the same air as a dangerous hunter watching its prey stumble around, injured, in the dark. He swept Dick up in his arms and carried him to the kitchen, placing him in a seat at the table where breakfast had already been made and laid out before him.

Slade’s hand trailed, leaving a warm twist through his hair as he passed. Dick felt sick once more, but the overall feeling of being _lost_ trumped the swirling emotions in his stomach.

He ate the meal slowly, trying not to think of how likely it was that he’d throw it all back up within the hour. Slade busied himself in the kitchen for some time, and then when Dick was done took his dishes.

“go put on your uniform.”

Dick blinked, staring at Slade in confusion for a while before heading to his own room, where the duffel bag with his gear was.

Everything was moving slowly. His hand on the doorknob and the sound of the door creaking and the process of putting the gear on. It was like moving through molasses. Like his brain had been fried and now everything was going slow.

He returned to Slade in the kitchen, and he followed him once more.

To the dungeon.

To the same cell.

Four people. One man, three children, no bags on their heads but plenty of tears. The Glock was sitting on Dick’s hip this time, having been added to his duffel of gear after the last time, and he felt it’s weight increase as he eyed the scene.

Slade stood by his side, comfortingly warm, and placed a hand on the small of his back.

“I think you know what I want you to do,” he said.

One man. Likely a rapist. Or a murderer. Or a drug dealer. Or anything. Maybe he was a perfectly normal man, with a wife and kids of his own.

And three little children.

Dick let out a breath.

Slade wanted him to shoot the man. That was his order. Dick had to follow orders, the pain wasn’t worth the disobedience.

He took the pistol from its holster, flicked the safety off and aimed with a perfect stance that had already been drilled into him by Slade’s teachings.

He didn’t close his eyes, didn’t flinch.

The bullet fired and the man’s head whipped back and he slumped to the cement.

Slade’s hand on his back slid over to his side, pulled him close, “very good.”

What did he say to that? What did Slade _want_ him to say to that?

He didn’t know. What he _did_ know was that the purr of his voice, his breath against his ear sent a shiver down his back and Dick _knew_ , he _knew_ , that he shouldn’t feel this way, that Slade had- had just- but it didn’t matter because really that just meant that Slade wanted him, didn’t it? Slade wanted him, truly and completely and he would never stop wanting him because unlike everyone else in Dick’s life he _really_ knew him. Knew the dark parts and the light parts and everything in between and he _wanted_ all of them and he _wasn’t going anywhere_.

The praise felt like approval and approval felt _so good_. He just-

He just wanted someone to want him, to care for him, to-

He leaned into Slade’s embrace as he lowered the gun.

“thank you.”

“what are you thinking about?”

Dick raised an eyebrow, glancing at Wally. He’d heard him walk over, but hadn’t acknowledged him, had merely continued to stare at the streets.

Wally leaned against the railing of the balcony. Dick took another sip from his drink.

“Slade,” Dick said.

Wally nodded, “he really screwed you up, didn’t he?”

Dick smirked and shook his head with a huff-of-a-laugh that he’d learned from Slade, “you have no idea.”

Wally looked at the railing, thumbs tracing along the wood grain.

“how can you… do… what you do?”

Dick gave Wally an unimpressed look and didn’t deign to answer.

“we spent years,” Wally continued on, “being _heroes_ , saving people, fighting the good fight. How do you just… throw that all away?”

Dick leaned forward on the railing, running his tongue along his teeth as he continued to sarcastically smile, holding in laughter at what Wally was asking him.

God what kind of question was that? What did Wally want him to _say_ to that?

Wally swallowed, taking a deep breath, “when I was in the speed force…” he began, eyes gazing at the streets of Happy harbour with a haunted look in his eyes, “I thought that… it would never stop. There’d never be an end. That I was stuck somewhere, or maybe I was just dead and that’s what the afterlife was and…” he frowned, “for a while, when I got out… I thought I was still there. That this was dream.”

Dick continued to stay silent, looking up to the night sky.

“but then everything felt so _real_ , and I realised that I… I was out. I was really out.” He picked at the wood grain, staring at it like it held the answers to his questions, “but even though I _know that_ , I still feel like… like I’ll just… fall back in. that I’ll turn around and I’ll be back there.” He stared out at the skyline, the orange streetlights washing his face in a glow of colour, “I don’t think I can use my powers. I… I’ve tried a few times and I just… panic. I feel like I’m… like I’ll disappear any second or I’ll… hell, maybe I’ll kill another thirty people on accident.”

Dick gave him a look and then took another sip of his drink.

“do you know what I mean?” Wally asked.

Dick considered, analysing his drink before sighing and looking out once more. He shrugged a shoulder and settled back against the railing.

The two existed in mutual silence for a few more moments. And then-

“Slade had a dungeon,” Dick said, with a snort, “a fucking _dungeon_. Who the _hell_ -“ he laughed lightly, then rolled his eyes and said, “well, Slade I guess? That’s who the hell, but…” he rubbed his thumb back and forth along the glass in his hand, condensation beading slightly, wiping away under the motion, “he taught me… he used to…”

Dick huffed through his nose as he struggled to figure out the words.

“he brought someone in once, strung them up like they were a pig or something, you know? Like it was a freezer room for drip drying cattle,” he said, “and he brought me in. put a knife in my hands, and then he stood behind me. And he told me to hurt the guy.”

Dick placed the glass on the balcony rail, watched the liquid move.

“not even for information or a vendetta or anything. Just cause. Just cause he wanted to teach me how.”

Wally watched him, eyes wide as saucers.

“and I didn’t know what to do. I just stared at the knife and the guy. And I thought ‘how’, but I knew I had to do it because Slade had told me to. It was an order. I couldn’t _not_ follow orders,” Dick said, gesturing slightly with his hand before deciding he’d prefer not to and gripping the rail instead, “and I told him, I asked, heck, _apologised_ , cause I just didn’t know how. And Slade stepped closer right behind me,” Dick said, straightening to stand up like he had back then, “and he put his arms around me and held the knife with me.” And he moved his arm so it was at that angle, the perfect one that Slade had put it into, and he could almost feel Slade’s breath against his ear again, his chest against his back, “and he moved my arm for me, cut into the guy’s skin. And he told me where the arteries were, where the muscles were, what was most painful, what would kill in seconds.”

Dick dropped his hand against the rail, still straight as a soldier, and he tried to remember what it was like to feel a body pressed to his. It had only been a few months but he already _missed_ it.

He was mourning. He was mourning his rapist, his murderer, his torturer. He was mourning the man who’d destroyed him and then pieced him back together.

“you miss him,” Wally said, as incredulous as he looked.

Dick opened his mouth to affirm it or refute it, but he found he had nothing to say to that claim.

He did. He missed Slade. Slade had wanted him, through it all, had made him feel so good and taught him so much and-

But Slade had also railed him into a mattress as he screamed, had beaten him bloody, had left him in rooms with absolutely nothing for weeks at a time and burnt his skin with a brand of his symbol right over his heart.

Where he belonged.

“how fucked up is that?” Dick asked, his voice only air. He couldn’t look at Wally. He wasn’t sure of he was asking the question in relation to what Wally had asked or if he was still thinking of the scar on his chest that Slade had put there.

Wally shifted closer and reached out a hand, letting his fingers trail softly on Dick’s forearm before sliding down to his wrist.

Dick clenched his jaw and pulled away as Wally attempted to knit their fingers together. He picked up his glass and downed the last of it before turning away and heading for the door.

“I’ll stay.”

Dick stopped, frowned, inclined his head so he could see Wally in his periphery.

“for a month. I’ll stay with you.”

Dick’s throat felt dry and his breath caught in his throat.

“okay,” he managed to say, before walking back inside.


End file.
